


Bonds and the Breaking Thereof

by rei_c



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Tattoos, Manipulation, Mating Bites, Oblivious Derek, One-Sided Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, POV Derek Hale, POV Stiles, Pack Bonding, Pack Feels, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Scent Marking, Scott McCall is a Bad Friend, Seduction, Sex-Repulsed Stiles Stilinski, Sociopath Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 21:39:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14554092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: "We should consider Stiles' suggestion," Peter says. Derek opens his mouth to argue; Peter holds up a couple fingers, says, "Let me speak, Derek." Derek's lip curls but he closes his mouth, nods for Peter to go on. "If Stiles doesn't spend time with us, he's only spending time with it," Peter says, blunt. "And how long do you think Stiles will cling to us if we don't give him something to cling to?"orIn the aftermath of their separation, Stiles and the nogitsune make a deal to stop the killing. Stiles is hanging onto his pack bonds by a thread but how long can he fight to be part of the pack when no one there wants him, and a nogitsune wearing his face does?





	Bonds and the Breaking Thereof

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Siavahda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siavahda/gifts).



> Thanks to {perfectcreature} for the timesharing idea, though this is nothing like what you prompted me. Apologies!
> 
> For siavahda, with the utmost appreciation for all the comments and encouragement.

The pack meeting's been going on for fifteen minutes when Derek stops mid-sentence and looks at the door to the loft. Peter's already got his head turned in that direction, an unfamiliar gleam in his eyes; not for the first time, Derek wonders if Peter's hearing is that much better than his own, or if there's something else going on. It takes the others a handful of seconds to realise where Derek's eyes are trained, and the bitten wolves pause, tilt their heads to the side almost as one when they finally pick up the heartbeat. 

Too fast, too thready, racing with stress. 

Stiles. 

Derek's up and at the door before Stiles reaches the landing. He opens the door, waits as Stiles comes into view. 

"Oh," Stiles says, and his scent flares out rich and full: a honeyed whiskey that Derek thinks must match his eyes, the cinnamon and allspice of his mother, a hint of ink and brandy he inherited from his father, something dark grey and wild that's all Stiles. "Hi. Guess I should've expected that." He sounds raw, looks it, too, before he gathers himself, gives Derek a tired smile. "Am I interrupting? I just wanted to -- five minutes, that's all I need. Um. I'm alone, too." 

Derek moves to the side, a silent welcome. Stiles edges past him, flinches when the door closes, holds himself tight as Derek goes to stand halfway between Stiles and Peter. The room's silent. Stiles doesn't come in any further, stands there with his shoulders in a tense line, fingers of one hand playing with loose threads at the hem of his hoodie, eyes flicking between everyone but settling on no one in particular. 

"I don't have long," Stiles says, "but I wanted to -- we all know that I made a deal," changing conversational threads mid-stream, getting right to the point. Derek's eyes drop to Stiles' hands, watches them, frowning, as they shake. "I wanted to know if there's any way I can still spend time with the pack." 

"Stiles," Derek starts, stops, trails off. He looks at Scott, who's still staring at Stiles like he's seeing a ghost. Maybe he thinks he is. Maybe all he can see is the way the nogitsune inhabited that skin, that flesh, and nearly destroyed them all. Maybe he looks at Stiles and remembers the child who fearlessly befriended him. Maybe -- there are too many maybes, and too much silence. 

Stiles glances at Scott, just for a second, then turns his attention to Derek. "I know it won't be easy but maybe we could set up some kind of meeting? Me, him, one of you? To, uh -- to come up with some type of schedule. A timeshare, sort of?"

Derek glances at Scott again but Scott seems more than content to let Derek lead this discussion. Not for the first time, Derek wishes that someone else -- anyone, even Peter -- was alpha instead of this child who has no idea what the merest notion of steady leadership truly means. It should be Scott standing face-to-face with Stiles, should be Scott coming up with some sort of response to Stiles' truly insane suggestion, should be Scott feeling ridiculous as everyone stares. 

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, says, "We're not going to set up a timeshare for you, Stiles."

"Dude," Stiles says, "I think we kind of have to, at this point. You're my pack; I want to spend time with you but I _have_ to spend time with him. So. Either we work out a schedule or you'll have to be willing to let him come around more with --"

"Him? Around more? Stiles, it killed members of our pack," Derek says. "Did you forget that? Did you forget that it nearly killed all of us?"

The plaintive expression on Stiles' face clears into smooth indifference. Derek aches to see it; Stiles has only ever started hiding his thoughts from the pack -- from Derek -- since he split from the nogitsune. "No," Stiles says. "I didn't forget. But if you won't let him be around you, then I can't be around you either. Until we come to some kind of agreement, I guess I --" He stops there, gaze flicking away from Derek to rest on Peter, briefly, and Lydia, even more briefly. "I guess I'll run into you, sometime."

He leaves before anyone can think to stop him.

\--

"You knew they wouldn't just accept it," Rhys says. The nogitsune -- named after his last host because Stiles isn't about to call him 'it' or 'fox' like the others, and it's too weird to think of him as another Stiles -- lounges on Stiles' bed, eyes pinned on Stiles, almost too thoughtful.

Stiles snorts. "I hoped they'd be smart enough to see it's the only thing that makes sense if they still --."

He doesn't finish the thought, _if they still want me_ , because obviously they don't. Stiles deserves that, he really does. Even before Rhys possessed him, Stiles was the least productive member of the pack, too fragile to do more than injure himself in battle, too slow to make any difference, too human to help. He can research with the best of them and he's saved most of them more than once but it's his fault Scott was even bitten in the first place, his endless curiosity and unstoppable drive, things he's been chastised for but never bothered to control -- and look where that's landed them all.

Rhys, though, moves, knee-walks down the bed to curl his arms around Stiles' waist, rest his chin on Stiles' shoulder. "You're the only clever one in that pack of subpar wolves and misfits," Rhys says, "and if they can't get their heads out of their collective asses, well, forget them."

He noses at Stiles' neck, inhales deep. Stiles can only guess what he smells: self-loathing, disgust, low-grade arousal, the scent of fading pack bonds.

It's been three weeks since Stiles has spent more than ten minutes with the pack as a group and he's intelligent enough to know that this was Rhys' plan from the moment they made their deal. Rhys wants Stiles, wants him as partner-in-crime, co-conspirator, fellow trickster, murder husband, so isolating Stiles from anyone who might keep him from moving into those roles would be any smart nogitsune's first move. It makes sense, it's what he'd do in Rhys' position, and he's told the others that but they won't listen -- or they don't care.

Three weeks isn't very long but Stiles is used to having pack bonds now, is used to relying on the feeling of everyone else being there even when they don't listen to him or trust him or, sometimes, even remember he exists. Without their tacit acknowledgment, without the minor scent marking he gets from Scott and Lydia and, occasionally, when they're around, Peter and Derek, it's getting harder and harder to hold onto them and not accept the bond that Rhys offers.

Splitting down the middle was Stiles' choice, in the end, but it hurt so much, so deeply, that if it wasn't for the pack bonds, he'd immediately have begged for Rhys to come back. Now those same pack bonds are fading away and Stiles is getting closer and closer to just -- giving up. Giving in. 

And Rhys can feel it.

There's a scrape of teeth down Stiles' neck. He tilts his head, lets out a shuddering breath when Rhys latches on, sucks a bruise right over Stiles' pulse point.

"Precious one," Rhys murmurs, a tone of voice that Stiles never knew could come from his throat, filthy and possessive and weighted heavy with desire. "I want you, Stiles. I'll accept what they never could, and I'll do it joyfully. I want all of you, every part of you, forever and always."

The thing is, Rhys isn't lying -- and Stiles knows that down to his marrow. Rhys knows every truth that Stiles hides: how he finds it difficult to feel much of anything for other people; how he relies on Scott's moral compass and his father's ignorance in order to ground himself; that he never loved Lydia but used her as a convenient cover; that he mostly fits the DSM definition of a sociopath and hides it with his flailing and rambling; that he wants so desperately to be good; that he remembers everything Rhys did while they shared the same body and liked it, the power, the games, the victory as every trap and trick came together.

Stiles knows everything about Rhys, too, because Rhys left himself open when he plunged into the depths of what makes Stiles tick and Stiles was intrigued, wanted to learn everything about the being possessing him. Stiles knows that the nogitsune's been searching for a mate for centuries, knows that the last sixty-five years it was trapped in the nemeton nearly drove him insane, knows how disgusted he is by everyone who's summoned him then tried to run from the consequences of those summonings, knows how it feels to drink down pain and leave chaos in its wake, knows how his appetite for strife is insatiable but so is his curiosity.

Rhys plays with the button of Stiles' jeans, drawing Stiles out of his thoughts. It's an offer, one that Stiles desperately wants to accept, but he puts his hand over Rhys', stills it. 

"Not yet," he says, because he knows how inevitable it really is. "I have to give them a chance."

"You've given them three weeks' worth of chances," Rhys says. "How much longer will it take?"

Stiles exhales, twines his fingers in with Rhys'. "I don't know," he says. _Not long_ , he thinks.

\--

The pack leaves in the early morning hours, no conclusions really drawn and the rest of their pizza-and-movie-night tense after Stiles' departure. Derek heads to the kitchen to make coffee. The caffeine won't affect him but the taste is steadying, the warmth comforting. It's not until the pot's half brewed that he realises Peter's sitting at the kitchen table.

Derek makes his own cup, fills one up for Peter as well, and joins his uncle at the table.

"Go on," he finally says. "I know you want to say something."

Peter leans back in his chair, hands curled around the mug and a more openly considerate look on his face than Derek's usually allowed to see. "We should consider Stiles' suggestion," he says. Derek opens his mouth to argue; Peter holds up a couple fingers, says, "Let me speak, Derek." Derek's lip curls but he closes his mouth, nods for Peter to go on. "If Stiles doesn't spend time with us, he's only spending time with it," Peter says, blunt. "And how long do you think Stiles will cling to us if we don't give him something to cling to?"

Derek exhales through his nose. "What are you saying, Peter."

"He might be friends with Scott and Lydia, but Scott was already drawing away before the possession and Lydia hears Allison dying every time she's in the same room as Stiles. The only real connection Stiles has to us now -- all of us -- are through his pack bonds, and I'm guessing the nogitsune tore those half to shreds," Peter says. "No one's making any effort to repair them. In fact, since we're not spending any time with Stiles, they're probably fading even more. What do you think will happen when they disappear completely and the only connection he has left is to a nogitsune who thinks Stiles is his perfect mate?"

"Mate?" Derek echoes, surprised beyond belief. 

Peter clucks his tongue, says, "Stiles is, to put it mildly and generously, morally ambiguous. He's a vengeful, vicious, cunning little shit who is the best thing to happen to a Hale pack in decades because he's all the best qualities of a wolf while still wearing human skin. He's loyal to a fault, protective of those he considers his, and intelligent enough to survive pretty much anything he finds himself up against. He's self-aware enough to have refused the bite -- twice, I might add -- and even Deaton's starting to believe he may be a little more magical than we suspect. So yes, mate."

Derek isn't quite sure how to parse everything Peter just laid out on the table. The longer he thinks about it, though, the more he realises that Peter's not wrong. About any of it.

"We have to fix the bonds," Derek says. "We can't let it take Stiles; even if you decide to stick around, Scott's pack needs someone like him."

Peter's eyebrow raises when Derek calls it _Scott's_ pack, but he doesn't point out Derek's wording. "We can start with us for now," Peter says, "and work on the others. Even one or two strong bonds will be enough to hold him for a little while if it's not too late. Though don't," he adds, leaning forward, meeting Derek's eyes, "think it's going to be easy. No doubt the nogitsune will know exactly what we're doing. It'll have plans against it, and more time with Stiles, too."

Derek looks back at his uncle, feels something like the bloodlust of an approaching hunt start to thrum through his veins. "But Stiles will know what we're doing as well," he says. 

Peter grins at him, a wild expression full of teeth, but the expression doesn't quite reach his eyes. He still looks, when his eyes flash beta blue, a little worried.

\--

The alarm goes off. Stiles groans, buries his face into Rhys' throat, mutters, "Make it stop." The arms around him tighten, then one moves, smacks around for the phone, eventually hits it in the right spot to turn off the app. "Thanks."

"'Course," Rhys says. He presses his lips to Stiles' head, shifts his hips, rolls his erection against Stiles'. "I have an idea," he says.

Stiles snorts, can't help it, and looks up at Rhys. It's still strange, looking at the nogitsune wearing his body -- his, the one with all the scars, broken bones, reminders of a life that Stiles led but now has no physical proof of his own to show for it. It's a little masturbatory, too, to know that the hard-on he's pressed up against matches his own exactly, to see his own lips and want to kiss them, to see his own skin and want to touch it. 

It's a little bit of a comfort, though. As much as Stiles jokes about getting laid, as much as he's allowed everyone to think he's obsessed with sex, he's never actually wanted to be that close to another person. He simply doesn't trust anyone else enough, feels a little queasy at the thought of being in someone else's body or welcoming someone into his own. It's different with Rhys. They spent weeks submerged in each other's minds and now Rhys is wearing Stiles' skin, flesh he already knows, is already comfortable with because it's the only body he's ever been comfortable with.

"Hey," Rhys says, pads of his fingers running down Stiles' side, skin against skin. "Where'd you go, Stiles?"

"Nowhere," Stiles says. He reaches out, hesitant as he slides one palm up Rhys' cheek, waiting for the discomfort to hit. It doesn't. Stiles lets out a breath, pulls Rhys' head down to press their foreheads together. 

"What if I go to school in your place?" Rhys suggests, grinning as the two share breath. "You can get more sleep and I can --"

"Cause chaos and keep me from spending time with my pack?" Stiles finishes. He thinks about it for a split second, wants so badly to say yes. He's so _tired_ and everything aches like he might be coming down with the flu except it doesn't feel natural, doesn't feel like something that twelve hours of sleep and half a bottle of NyQuil would fix. "What's wrong with me?" 

"Bond withdrawal, if I had to guess," Rhys says, soft. "I remember what they felt like when I was in you," and Stiles groans at the leer, groans again -- a different way -- when Rhys' fingers dip below the line of Stiles' pyjamas. "I'm guessing they're starting to fade enough that you're noticing."

"They'll fade faster if I'm not at school with my pack," Stiles points out. "It'd make me feel better to spend time with them."

Rhys huffs, says, "You'll stop feeling like this once they're gone. And are you really sure they'll _want_ to talk to you?" It doesn't sound pointed or harsh, more like he's trying to get Stiles to think, but then he moves enough to nip at the hickey he left on Stiles' throat the night before. 

Stiles jerks away before he can help himself, tries to ignore the way that momentary spike of hurt, something tangible, something real, amidst all of the phantom aches and pains, floods through his system and goes straight to his dick. "Fuck," he says. "You're gonna have to go. There's no way in hell I can hide that." 

"Do you want to hide it?" Rhys asks, smirking when Stiles looks up at him. "You could let them all see exactly where we stand, give them a hint as to where we're going, hmm?"

"Evil," Stiles says, smacking Rhys.

Rhys merely licks his lips, says, "That's the way you like me, Stiles. Now, give me permission to go to school and see what trouble I can cook up."

Stiles smiles at Rhys, can't help it, and nods, too. "I shouldn't feel the bonds this intensely," he says, half a guess. "Why can I? Why is affecting me like I'm a born shifter instead of just a plain human?"

"You're a little more than plain human," Rhys says, running his hand down Stiles' side as he gets up, tucks Stiles back under the covers. "Deaton called you a spark once, do you remember? Sparks have the capacity to form bonds just as intensely as any born shifter."

"What does being a spark mean, though?" Stiles asks. He wants to get up, wants to ask Rhys for all the information Rhys might have, but he's warm, now, and so comfortable, and his body's singing with so much angry hurt that all he can think about is going back to sleep so he doesn't have to feel it. "Will you tell me?" 

Rhys leans over, slides his lips against Stiles', traces the curve of Stiles' ear with his tongue. "I'll tell you everything. But later, Stiles. Rest." 

Stiles closes his eyes, hums a little, falls back to sleep before Rhys even leaves the room. 

\--

Derek pauses in the tree outside of Stiles' home, listens. He only hears one heartbeat so he opens Stiles' window, climbs into Stiles' room and keeps his eyes on the lump in the bed. He's never actually seen a nogitsune sleep before; maybe it's because it's wearing Stiles' skin but it looks so very human.

So very weak.

He thought it would've felt his presence, woken up or reacted somehow, but when five minutes pass and nothing's changed, he coughs, loudly.

A bleary-eyed Stiles-shaped fox with bedhead emerges from the covers, freezes when it see him.

"I thought we could have a talk while Stiles is at school," Derek says. "I'll make it quick, don't worry; I don't want to spend any more time with you than I imagine you want to spend with me." 

"You don't -- Derek, it's me," it says. "Rhys -- he went to school for me so I could sleep."

Derek narrows his eyes, lets his teeth show. "I don't believe you," he says, "and I won't. So save your breath and let me say what I came here to say."

It stares at him, just long enough that Derek wonders if maybe that _is_ Stiles, but then its eyes harden and it crosses its arms over its chest. "Fine," it says. "Whatever. What do you want."

"We know what you're doing," Derek says. "You're trying to isolate Stiles so he doesn't have any choice except to say yes to you. And I'm here to tell you that it won't work."

" _Stiles_ ," it says, and the tone is mocking, almost self-deprecating, "hasn't spent any appreciable time with the pack in three weeks. When he suggested changing that, you told him no. It's a little hard to maintain pack bonds without a pack, Derek."

Derek growls, can't help the instant response because this _thing_ has no right to say his name, none. His eyes flash blue, he can feel it, just like he feels his claws start to poke through at the ends of his fingers, ready and desperate to come out, tear the thing in front of him apart. He fights for control, every inch of it, and has enough to say, "Don't call me Derek like you know me," before it's all he can do to keep his fangs from appearing.

"All right, _Beta Hale_ ," it says, and -- Derek's never seen that particular sneer on Stiles' face before, it's -- to be honest, it's a little intimidating, a little unnerving. "I must say, with that kind of attitude, I don't know how you'll convince Stiles you want him to stick around." It cocks its head in thought, says, scant seconds later, "Peter. Peter talked to you, didn't he. So here you are, trying to keep the most human member of the pack bound to it because _Peter_ thinks it's a good idea. What do _you_ think?"

"That there's no way in hell I'm letting you convince Stiles that his best option is to mate with you," Derek says. "Not when he's a part of my pack."

It laughs; the sudden, abrupt and, frankly, bitter noise startles Derek. "Your pack? When you're not even around half the time? When every inch of you is vibrating with the need to leave? When you never wanted to come back to Beacon Hills in the first place? Good effort, Beta Hale, but try again."

"His best friend's pack, then," Derek says. "His pack. He belongs here, with us, not with you, and if takes every single one of --"

"But you're the only one here," it says, cutting Derek off. "And that wasn't even your own idea. Where are the rest of them?"

Derek narrows his eyes, feels something in his stomach shift. Something has just gone irrevocably, irredeemably wrong and he doesn't know what it is. "At school," Derek says, slowly. "With Stiles. It doesn't take an entire pack to tell you we know what you're doing."

"No," it says. "No, it doesn't. Peter!" it calls out, startling Derek. "Stop lurking and get the hell in here."

Peter's at the window a moment later, pulls himself inside and stands shoulder to shoulder with Derek. Derek watches as Peter studies the nogitsune, drops his jaw in disbelief when Peter's eyes soften and he says, "Stiles. Are you feeling all right?"

It -- no, it can't be, that's the -- _no_.

"Tired," Stiles says. "Vaguely ill. Rhys says it's bond withdrawal so he went to school for me." 

"And it's bad enough that you don't care what he's doing there, wearing your skin?" Peter asks, incredulous. He moves, though, as he's saying it, sits on the bed and throws one arm around Stiles' shoulders, pulls Stiles close to his side, and takes one of Stiles' hands in his own. 

Derek's eyes are drawn to that, the image of Stiles' long, thin fingers held tight in Peter's, the way Stiles seems so pale, so shaky, and Peter's so steady in comparison. He tears his attention off of their hands in time to see it -- to see _Stiles_ press his face into Peter's neck, let out a deep sigh of relief and relax when Peter starts draining pain, arms turning black. "Feels good," Stiles mutters. "Thanks."

"You don't need to thank me," Peter says. "We're pack, this is what pack does. Now. I'm going to ignore the love bite on your neck, and we're both going to ignore how stupid my dear nephew is, and you're going to try and go back to sleep. Understand?"

"Bossy," Stiles says, but it sounds like he's already half asleep. "Just -- don't be creepy. 'Kay?"

Peter gets Stiles settled back down; he's still drawing out Stiles' pain, god. "I'm sorry," Peter says, "have you met me? Creepy is my middle name."

There's a small huff from Stiles but no verbal response. A moment later, his heartbeat settles into sleep.

"How could I not tell?" Derek asks. He sits down on the desk chair before his knees give out; he can feel the shock hit him hard now that Stiles is asleep. "How could -- he told me he was Stiles and I didn't believe him. How is that even possible?"

"You were already on guard," Peter says, volume just loud enough for Derek to hear, nowhere near loud enough to disturb Stiles. "They share the same body, the same mannerisms, the same scent. You expected Stiles to be at school, expected this to be the nogitsune; you proceeded appropriately with that in mind."

Derek shakes his head, says, again, "He told me he was Stiles." He feels like such an idiot. 

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself and come help me drain his pain," Peter says. "Make up for your mistake."

That gets Derek's attention. Stiles shouldn't be feeling anything remotely nearing Peter's threshold for pain leeching; Peter's arms are still black, though, and the lines around his eyes and mouth are tight. Derek scoots the chair over, puts his hand on Stiles' ankle, starts to draw pain and nearly passes out.

"I suppose Deaton must be correct about Stiles having some type of magic," Peter says. "No normal human would feel this much hurt from bond withdrawal."

Peter's right. This kind of thing is more comparable to what Derek felt during the fire, losing almost his entire family in one go. This is true pack bond severing, drawn out for maximum agony, and the fact that Stiles is still reaching out to them rather than cutting himself off from the bonds causing him such torment says everything about their human.

Derek looks at Peter, says, "We can't lose him."

"We can't give him a reason to stay," Peter replies. "Not when he's been feeling like this for god knows how long. If he keeps holding on, it'll drive him insane."

"He has one connection," Derek says, eyes dipping down to that bruise on Stiles neck. "He'll stay sane enough for us to fight for him."

Peter waits until Derek looks at him to say, "There comes a point when it might be better to let go."

Derek gapes, says, "You were the one -- last night, you said --."

"I didn't know how much pain he was in last night," Peter says when it's clear that Derek just can't find the words. "Keeping him connected to them while they're like this -- it's cruel, Derek, on a level that neither you nor I should be willing to force. And yes, the pain will stop if the bonds grow strong enough to resist withdrawal, but -- how's _your_ bond with Stiles?"

Derek takes his hand off of Stiles, closes his eyes and sifts through his bonds. The ones to Peter and Cora are thick, blood- and tragedy-heavy, and the one to Scott as his alpha thrums loud. Lydia's sings like the shrill scrape of a door closing in an abandoned house, Isaac's is a glowing, sharp-edged silver that no doubt reflects his attachment to Argent, there's a fledgling bond to Kira, and Jackson's is thin and wispy with distance.

He can't find his bond to Stiles. 

Derek reaches deeper, desperately, searching for the red string that's always represented Stiles to him: the red of passion, of blood, of promises kept and favorite colors and fire, of sacrifice and trust and respect. It used to be thick, woven tight, an anchor when Derek was drifting, a life preserver when Derek found himself drowning.

Nothing. It's not there. It's gone. 

Eyes open, he stares at Peter. He has no words, so Derek just shakes his head.

Peter looks down at Stiles, lets out a long, deep breath, grips Stiles just that little bit tighter.

Derek runs.

\--

It's dark when Stiles emerges from the covers. His window's open, so there's a freshness to the air in his bedroom, but Stiles thinks he can still smell Peter.

"Your wolf only left an hour ago," Rhys says. He settles on the bed next to Stiles, leans down and rubs his cheek against Stiles', nips at Stiles' throat when Stiles lifts his chin up in silent demand. "He seemed reluctant to leave."

"Yeah," Stiles says. He yawns, rubs his eyes. "Wait. Why did you call him my wolf?"

Rhys tsks, hauls Stiles upright and into his lap, puts his hands under Stiles' shirt and draws out pain. Both of them shudder; Stiles practically collapses in boneless relief as he drops his head backwards to rest on Rhys' shoulder. Beneath him, Rhys is shivering, breath coming out fast from his mouth, cock hardening under Stiles' ass.

"Doesn't feel like this when the wolves," Stiles starts to say, has to stop when a rivulet of something that lives in the moment when pain turns into pleasure runs down his spine. "Jesus, fuck," he moans, shifts, unsteady, out of his mind.

Rhys doesn't seem to be in much better condition; he's not even pressing the advantage of Stiles being off-balance. His hands grip Stiles' hips, mouth panting out hot breath against Stiles' throat instead of nipping little kisses full of teeth and tongue across his shoulders.

"They don't feed off it like we do," Rhys says. "They destroy it."

"We don't --," Stiles gasps, can't help it as he moves a hand to his dick, presses down and lets out a groan. "I don't feed. I'm not feeding."

Rhys thrusts up into Stiles, nails going fox-sharp as they dig into Stiles. They break the skin, cause little pinpricks of blood to well up, leave his fingers to slip, create new scratches. The influx of hurt goes to both of their heads, has Rhys growling low in his throat. "Connected," he gathers himself enough to say. "Connected enough for this. Want more?"

Stiles should say no, should hold himself back, but he finds himself saying, "God, yes -- _please_ , Rhys."

It's overwhelming. It's all Stiles can feel, all he can taste, and he can oh-so-easily imagine a lifetime of this, of the way this makes him feel, unhindered by social convention, uncaring of anything except for Rhys and the next hit of this pleasure. The way he feels, it's so good, all-consuming, and what is a moral compass he's never really had in the face of something as omnipresent and never-ending as pain? They don't even have to cause it, just find it, revel in it, but Rhys digs deeper and the freshness of it, the violence of it being because of _them_ , hits hard. 

"Peter's not my wolf," Stiles says, voice thready, hips jerking up to search for friction. He's aching for more but feels weightless, floating in a sense of easy physical companionship that he's never experienced before. 

"The only one who cares," Rhys says, buries his face in the curve of Stiles' neck. "The only one I need to fight to keep you."

Stiles comes with a low noise, echoed almost immediately by Rhys, snarling. The scent of arousal and orgasm is strong enough that it goes to Stiles' head, has him grinding down into the mess Rhys made underneath him. He turns into Rhys' hold, ignores the come in his own sweats, noses tiredly at Rhys' chin as the sudden lack of -- food, he thinks, leaves him light-headed, dry-mouthed.

"Don't fight," Stiles says, and yawns. "Not Peter. He's smart; he'll know when he's beaten."

"And when will he be beaten, Stiles?" Rhys asks.

Stiles chuckles around another yawn. "You know I have no chance," he says, "not after -- not now."

Rhys hums, nuzzles into Stiles. "Like the sound of that," he murmurs.

\--

Derek's spent all night sitting on the living room floor in his old house, trying to think of a way to fix the monumental error he made the day before. He's been alone -- thankfully; how could he even face anyone right now? -- but an hour before sunrise, Scott makes his way to the house, signalling his presence by walking heavily, cracking twigs and branches under his feet. He steps up to the porch slowly, giving Derek a chance to yell at him to leave. Derek doesn't, so Scott comes inside, sits next to him, back and head against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. 

Scott doesn't say anything, not for the longest time, not until half an hour after their heartbeats have synced up, after their breathing has fallen into rhythm. Derek's fallen down deep back into his mind, almost forgetting the presence of his alpha; Scott's voice startles him. 

"Peter called me once he left -- once he got back to the loft," Scott says, "and didn't you see there. I went over after school with Lydia, talked to him." Scott takes a deep breath, brings up the real reason for his visit. "Peter said you couldn't feel your pack bond to Stiles anymore. Said it broke yesterday." 

Derek shrugs, says, "It could've been." There's a mountain of agony in that short response; he knows what he sounds like but can't be bothered to care. 

He's a born wolf, a Hale, a former alpha. Derek should've known that something was wrong with his bond to Stiles long before it disappeared -- but he didn't. He didn't know and couldn't tell until it was too late. He's a failure in so many ways but this one _hurts_ in a way he's unfamiliar with. 

Scott knocks his shoulder against Derek's, ignores the minute flinch Derek gives in response. "I checked on his bonds once Peter told me," Scott says. "They're gone, all of them except the ones to Peter and Lydia." That gets Derek's attention, has him looking up from the floor and pinning startled eyes on Scott. Scott nods, grim and with his eyes flashing red. "Ours broke a few hours ago. I can't -- Stiles isn't in -- I'm not his alpha anymore."

"It's too late, then," Derek says. "We've lost him." 

"No," Scott says. "We can fix this. We can --."

He stops as Derek wrenches himself to his feet, hurls a piece of wood at the wall, watches as it breaks through drywall before splintering. "No," Derek says, practically yelling. "We can't. It's too late, Scott. Stiles has _tried_ , he's been reaching out to us for help for three weeks, and we _left_ him. _We_ destroyed his bonds, we gave him no choice, played right into the hands of that damned void demon and now he has Stiles and we're -- we've got _nothing_." 

Scott stands up, reaches out. Derek moves back, away from Scott's touch, even as Scott says, "We can't give up, Derek. We can't just let it win. Stiles would want --" 

Derek throws his head back, howls as he feels another echo of that lost bond rip through him. 

_He didn't even know it was gone_.

"We have to try," Scott says, once the last remnants of the howl have disappeared. 

"Do we?" Derek asks, now just as bitter as Stiles had sounded, yesterday, just as mocking and spiteful. He'd wondered how Stiles could ever breathe through that feeling; he's finding out now that it's all too easy, much too easy to let the hate bubble up through fountains of resentment and anger. "Why would he want to keep his bond with you, Scott? You've blamed him for everything since you went out with him in the woods and got bitten by Peter and all he's done is try to protect you. He's tried to protect all of us, he's _bled_ for us, and what have we given him in return? Well? _Well_?"

Scott stares, lips parted, in shock. "Derek," he whispers. "Do you -- is that what you really think?"

"I think you've taken advantage of him for years," Derek spits. "All of us have, but you've been the worst. Is it any wonder he'd rid himself of you the instant he has a better option? You've never put him first, not _once_. First it was Allison, then Isaac, then Kira -- you threw him away for each of them, expected him to live without you but then drop everything the instant you summoned him. You trusted Argents over him; you'd rather eat with people that murder our kind than save him when he called you with his life hanging in the balance." 

Derek pauses, steps forward, stalking Scott as Scott moves backwards, giving ground without even realising it. 

"You were so busy with Allison that you left him alone with a poisoned, blue-eyed werewolf and nearly forced him to cut my fucking arm off," he says. "Do you _know_ what that would have done to him? You were too busy plotting with Gerard to pay attention to Stiles nearly getting killed -- more than once!" He narrows his eyes. Scott thumps against the wall and Derek prowls right over to his alpha, cages Scott in, fangs descended and eyes blue, claws digging into the wall. "I bet," he says, slurring around his fangs but tone so deadly that it might as well be wielding those fangs instead of coiling around them, "you never even knew that Gerard kidnapped Stiles that night." 

"What?" Scott breathes, eyes wide. "Derek, Gerard never --"

Derek snarls, cuts Scott off with the noise and then with his words. "He took Stiles from the lacrosse pitch, tied him up with Erica and Boyd, and nearly beat him to death," Derek says. "And you didn't notice. He saved us all from Jackson with broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and burns, bruises, and cuts all over his weak, human body. _Peter_ 's the one who noticed, who drew his pain out enough so that Stiles could lie down to sleep. He didn't heal for _weeks_ , Scott. And you were too thrilled you'd come up with a plan on your own to care." 

Scott sags, tears spilling down his cheeks as he gapes, searches for words. 

"The nogitsune's offering him loyalty and companionship for the rest of his goddamned life, _Alpha McCall_ ," Derek says. "What do you think _you_ can offer him?"

Derek eyes the line of Scott's throat, wants so badly to tear into Scott with his teeth now that he's used his words. He doesn't. Instead, he leaves. 

It's the one thing he's good at.

\--

Stiles wakes up to the feel of Rhys' hands on his belly, the slow arch of Rhys' hips pushing his erection into Stiles' ass. Stiles makes a little noise, moves with the action, tilts his head to bare his throat as Rhys' hand plays with the strings of Stiles' pants. Rhys takes that for the acceptance it is, lets his fingers dart inside of Stiles' sweats and briefs, curl around Stiles' dick. 

"Rhys," Stiles breathes out, doesn't know if he should arch up into the touch or back into the cradle of Rhys' hips. It's -- it should feel weird, a hand that is and yet isn't his own, a body that is and yet isn't his own, but all he feels is a tremorous bliss as Rhys digs his teeth into Stiles' neck. 

"You've only got two bonds left," Rhys murmurs, drawing Stiles close enough and holding him tightly enough that Stiles can't move, can't do anything but let Rhys play with him, _use_ him, grant him pleasure he's never felt before. "Let them break, Stiles. Let them go. I'll feed you the pain of it, like last night."

Stiles freezes. Rhys feels so good, is offering something incredibly tempting, but those last two bonds are to Lydia and Peter and Stiles doesn't know if he wants to let go of them. He thought that losing Scott would hurt the most but Scott's been drawing away ever since he laid eyes on Allison and the possession only tore their friendship apart faster; their bond broke last night and Stiles -- Stiles felt close to nothing when it snapped. 

Breaking Peter's bond will hurt more. That might have scared him once but they've developed an understanding, a similarity, a kinship. It's been slow-moving, started the night Peter offered the gift, still half-insane with vengeance, offered rather than taking, the way he did with Scott, and grew into mutual respect and appreciation during those long nights while Stiles was healing after Gerard, blossomed while they spent time together during the alpha pack's invasion. 

Lydia, though. Lydia's been his tether to humanity in more than one way for so long that the disappearance of their connection will mean nothing less than a freedom from that same humanity. 

Stiles wriggles in Rhys' hold, turns to face Rhys, trace fingers down his cheek. "I can't," he says. "Not yet. I -- I want to see them one last time, before I do it. Is that -- will you come with me?" 

"Oh, Stiles," Rhys breathes. "They don't deserve you. They never have. I can't wait until all your loyalty belongs to me and only me. You swear it will? You _promise_ you'll break the bonds?"

"Yes," Stiles says. He knows what a promise means, especially to a nogitsune, especially to _this_ nogitsune. He makes it anyway, easily, because he's going to keep it. "One last time to look them in the face. To tell them -- one last time. Then I'm yours." 

Rhys moves, instantly, fits his mouth to Stiles', bites his way between Stiles' lips and claims Stiles' mouth. Stiles doesn't give an inch, fights back, shoves one hand inside Rhys' pyjama pants even as Rhys starts jacking Stiles off again. When they come, almost in unison, the bend of their spines the same arch, the noises they make combining in perfect pitch, they're both bloody, panting, baring teeth in vicious grins. 

"Mine," Rhys says, finally, when their hearts have settled, when they're not gasping for breath, when the come in their underwear is drying, itchy on their skin. "You'll be mine." 

"And you'll be mine," Stiles replies. 

Rhys smiles, noses at the sweat behind Stiles' ear, tongue darting out to taste. "Have the meeting here," he suggests. "As soon as it's done, we can come back up to bed." 

Stiles laughs, but soon quiets, asks, "Will it hurt?" 

"Yes," Rhys says. "But I can feed off the pain and your spark might help. Would you -- the mating, the spark: which should we talk about first?" 

"Thank you," Stiles says, leaning over to press a kiss to the corner of Rhys' mouth. Rhys raises an eyebrow in question; Stiles says, "For giving me the choice. For letting me know you're willing to talk about both. For answers. Pick one." 

Rhys sighs. "I hate them for making you think you don't deserve to ask," he says. He wriggles out of his pyjama bottoms and messy underwear, pulls Stiles' off as well, reaches down and grabs a towel to wipe them both off. "You are entitled to know everything you want and you should never have been made to feel otherwise." 

Stiles pulls up the sheets and comforter once they're clean -- cleaner. He cuddles into Rhys, revels in the fact that his skin doesn't crawl at the contact, that he _wants_ to get close, plaster himself all over someone else. The fact that the 'someone else' is physically him isn't important, not really, except that it calms the hypervigilant part of his hindbrain craving safety, leaves him loose and languid in Rhys' hold. 

"The spark first," he decides. "It's magic?" 

"Rare magic," Rhys says. It takes him a second to go on; Stiles understands completely when Rhys admits, "It's why I chose you when I had Scott and Allison to pick from as well. An alpha werewolf and an Argent are good choices for hosts but a spark -- I could never have planned for a spark. And then I was in you, Stiles, and you were perfect, practically a nogitsune already. It was a heady combination, your mind and your magic." 

Stiles thinks about that, weighs it against what he learned from Rhys when they shared his body, both about Rhys and about himself. Rhys isn't wrong to call him half a nogitsune; they feed on chaos, conflict, pain, and Stiles isn't a fan of pain, necessarily, but he's always enjoyed a little mischief and he's never really cared if that mischief came with a spattering of blood. Scott might be a werewolf and a little hypocritical sometimes but he's _good_ at a deep intrinsic level and Allison can be ruthless but she loves to a disturbing, all-encompassing degree. In comparison, Stiles' sociopathy, carelessness, creativity, must have seemed like the best choice -- even before his magic. 

"What's a spark?" he asks. "I mean, Deaton's a druid, we've met a darach, and Peter's talked about mages and elementals before. Why's a spark different?" 

"The others perform magic," Rhys says, "but the spark _is_ magic. Druids and darachs are limited in what they can do, mostly because of how they work. They use runes and potions and if it can't be done by a spell or ritual, they can't do it. Mages draw on the magic in their blood; it's a function of how much blood they're willing to spill, so you get weak mages who won't do more than scratch themselves to light a match or suicidal ones who'll kill themselves to level cities. Elementals use nature to power their spells; the strength of a connection between an elemental and their element fluctuates and they can only perform the magics allowed by their element." 

Stiles takes that in, says, "So a fire elemental wouldn't be able to do water spells, for instance. Or a lightning elemental can't do magic if it's a clear day." Rhys nods. "They're all bound," Stiles says, feeling his way toward an answer that seems a little far-fetched. Rhys wouldn't lie to him, though, so everything he's saying has to be true. It makes Stiles' head spin. "By the limits of their element, or by the limits of runes, or their willingness to shed their own blood. But a spark -- when you said that the others do, but a spark is -- there are no limits. No boundaries." 

"And no rules," Rhys says. "Just imagination."

"God, no wonder you picked me," Stiles says. He stops, thinks, can't help laughing. "An amoral spark. Jesus. Of _course_ we fit."

Rhys, when Stiles looks at him, is grinning. Stiles can't help it, has to kiss him, has to lick his way between Rhys' lips and eat that smile straight from Rhys' mouth. A moment later they're both groaning and Rhys pulls back to say, "Just _believe_ , Stiles," before he returns to the kiss. 

Belief. That's what Deaton said, one eyebrow raised in that annoyingly cryptic manner of his, handing over the mountain ash. 

Stiles puts a hand on Rhys' side, above his hip, and _believes_. Rhys hisses into the kiss, breaks it as he turns his head, pushes down the blankets. Stiles follows his gaze, moves his hand, lets his fingers trail along the letters now tattooed onto Rhys' skin. 

_MS_

It's a typeface that Stiles wouldn't be able to name but it looks good on Rhys: elegant curves, calligraphic lines, nearly-invisible serifs. 

Rhys gives Stiles a look. Stiles smiles, can't help it. "I'm going to carry your mating bite," he says. "You might as well carry my initials. And speaking of," he trails off. 

It takes Rhys a moment to recover from Stiles' reasoning -- at least, that's what it looks like. "Here," he says, picking up Stiles' right arm, rubbing his thumb over the pulse point in Stiles' wrist. "It's where all of us bite our mates." Stiles watches the hypnotic movement for a moment before Rhys' words sink into his brain. He looks at Rhys so fast that his neck cracks. "And you wonder why I call him your wolf," Rhys says. "He would've mated you that night without even telling you what he was doing." Stiles can't decide if Rhys sounds accusatory or admiring. "The two of you suit each other; his wolf knew what he was offering even if the man didn't know why."

"I'd never mate with Peter," Stiles says, matter-of-factly, like it's so obvious he can't imagine anyone thinking otherwise. "We're friends, maybe even close enough to feel like family, but he's --." Stiles stops, tries to find the words to explain what he feels, how he feels. Eventually he has to shake his head, say, "I thought about it once or twice -- sex, I mean, not mating. But he never felt right." If Stiles had ever been forced to fuck someone, Peter would be his first choice, but he wouldn't enjoy it, he knows that. Peter still rubs up against Stiles' sex-repulsion in all the wrong ways, just like everyone else -- everyone else but Rhys. 

Rhys lets out a breath, nuzzles at Stiles' wrist before letting it go, hiding them under the covers again. "I've never been so relieved we share the same body," he murmurs. 

"We don't," Stiles says, correcting Rhys. "And splitting us up was one of the most painful things I've ever done. But I'm glad, too. Relieved that I -- just, relieved." 

They've shared a mind. Rhys knows everything about Stiles, the way that Stiles knows everything about Rhys. He has to know how thrilled Stiles is to be able to _want_. 

"I do," Rhys tells him. Stiles doesn't know if he spoke out loud or if Rhys knew what he was thinking. 

He doesn't care. 

\--

Derek knocks on the front door. Peter and Lydia are behind him, Peter with open curiosity written all over his face, Lydia filled with such trepidation that Derek can smell it. Derek thinks he's more on Lydia's side with this, doesn't understand how his uncle can be so calm when he and Lydia are practically vibrating with tension. 

The door opens; Derek meets Stiles' eyes, wonders which one this is, the human or the fox. 

"Hey, guys," Stiles -- it has to be Stiles -- says. "Come in. Rhys is upstairs getting dressed." Peter makes a little noise and Stiles flushes, says, "Since he took a _shower_ , creeper. Ugh." 

"You have two new bruises and a bite mark on your neck," Peter replies. "Is he taking a shower to clean up after sex?"

Stiles narrows his eyes but steps to the side, lets the three of them in. Derek hears it getting dressed upstairs, humming under its breath. He wants to go up, rip out its throat, roll in its blood as he forges a new bond with Stiles, but he wasn't even invited, not really, so he stays quiet as the four of them go into the kitchen, sit around the table. 

"Why are we here, Stiles?" Lydia asks. She shifts on her seat, looks as if she'd rather be anywhere else but here. She didn't want to come, now she's forcing the confrontation. Derek doesn't think that this is the way to go but he'll admit that Lydia's known Stiles a lot longer than he has. Maybe this is the best way to approach the situation.

Footsteps interrupt Derek's thoughts, then, and it enters the kitchen, stands behind Stiles, puts its hands on Stiles' shoulders. Lydia ignores it but Peter stares, eyes flicking back and forth between it and Stiles. 

"I wanted to see you before I break our bonds," Stiles says. Lydia's eyes widen; she covers her mouth with one hand. Peter's eyes narrow as he leans forward. He opens his mouth as if he's about to ask a question but Stiles says, "My decision," before he can. "I wanted to -- not apologise, because I'm not sorry about this, and not explain, because I don't need to defend my choice. But I wanted to tell you, in person, and say I'm sorry for the pain I'm about to cause you." 

"You're going into this with a clear mind?" Peter asks. Stiles nods. "You've taken time to think about it, to consider the ramifications, to plan for the future?" Stiles nods again. "I will miss you, Stiles. But I won't hold you back." 

Stiles lets out a breath, reaches over, grips Peter's offered hand tight for a span of three seconds. "Thank you. I -- I'm sorry that I couldn't say yes, in the garage."

Peter squeezes Stiles's hand, lets go. "It's you," he says, "not me. I know that. But I was disappointed. I think some part of me always will be." He sits there, drinks down the sight of Stiles like he's never going to see him again, then stands. "I'll wait outside." As Peter leaves, he brushes his lips over Stiles' forehead, his hand over Stiles' arm, scent-marking him for one last time. 

Derek isn't exactly sure what he's just witnessed. He has a feeling he'll be trying to decipher the nuances of that short exchange for years; Peter will never explain it. Derek takes in the look on the nogitsune's face, can't do anything but watch as it rubs one thumb across the nape of Stiles' neck. Stiles relaxes under the light pressure, swallows as he turns his attention to Lydia. 

"So," Stiles says. There's a lopsided smile on his face. When Lydia doesn't return it, the smile disappears. "Okay. It's like that, then." 

"It killed my _best friend_ ," Lydia says, a snarl riding the words. "In no universe is this a good idea, Stiles." 

Stiles' expression evens out but Derek smells anger under the fresh soap and shampoo covering Stiles' natural scent. He wants to say something, wants to calm things down enough for a reasonable discussion, but he doesn't know what to say. There's nothing he _can_ say. He's already let Stiles down, let their own bond break, and even though he'd prefer to see the fox dead, he can respect that it's planning on treating Stiles better than they ever could or did. Peter, too, gave their mating his own seal of approval, gave Stiles the courtesy of agreeing that Stiles knows his own mind. 

He sits, watches Stiles watch Lydia, tries to ignore the nogitsune. It's difficult. 

"This is my choice, Lydia," Stiles says. "I'm not asking for your opinion. I'm asking for a goodbye." 

"Are you leaving Beacon Hills?" Lydia asks. "You've still got school. What's your father think about that?" 

Stiles gives Lydia a smile so caustic that it's more of a bared-teeth warning than anything else. "My father can't look me in the face," he says. "He hasn't been home in three days. If I was leaving, he'd probably help me pack. But we'll finish out the school year first, then we'll go." He stops there for a moment, waits for Lydia to say something. She doesn't. "We both know that once our bond's broken, Rhys is going to give me a mating bite. I'll make it as easy as I can for you and your pack -- Rhys already quit the lacrosse team for me and switched a couple of my classes -- but I doubt you'll want to acknowledge my existence. Hence the goodbye." 

Lydia studies Stiles. "What can I do to persuade you otherwise?" she asks, no sign of the girl she pretends to be, letting all the vicious intelligence she possesses radiate out of her narrowed eyes, pursed lips. 

"Nothing," Stiles says. "I've made my decision. This is just a courtesy." 

"I'll never forgive you," Lydia says. 

Stiles shrugs one shoulder. "Don't care," he says. 

Derek's watching the exchange with something like fascination. Lydia rarely lets this side out and Stiles -- he isn't lying. He really _doesn't care_. Derek never thought Stiles would be able to look at Lydia and refuse her so completely, not when Stiles has been in love with her for over a decade and close friends since he fell out of his obsession. Saying that, though, Stiles has never smelled of love or lust around her in all the time Derek's known him, which means -- what, exactly? 

Something about Stiles is different, as he sits here and stares down Lydia, looks at her like he can hardly bring himself to care about her while she's started crying, silent and straight-backed, proud like some type of ancient queen watching her kingdom burn to ashes around her. Derek would blame the fox but -- he thinks, maybe, that this is what's been lurking down deep in Stiles all along. This is why a spirit of chaos and destruction would choose Stiles, even apart from the magic Derek's not really convinced Stiles possesses. 

"Break the bond, then," Lydia says. "Do it now, so I can watch." 

One corner of Stiles' mouth ticks up in amusement. "Fine," he says. 

Derek doesn't hear anything, can't feel anything, but Lydia jerks in her chair and immediately starts screaming -- human screaming with an edge of the banshee. Stiles -- sits there, watching her, and the nogitsune's hand, still wrapped around Stiles' neck, turns black as it feeds on Stiles' pain. From outside, Derek hears Peter inhale a ragged, wet breath. 

The fox looks at Derek, meets Derek's eyes with a triumphant gleam in its own. "Take her with you and get out," it tells him. "We have a bonding to perform." 

\--

Later, if asked, Stiles wouldn't know how he got upstairs, much less naked and into bed. The agony of his last two pack bonds dying rips through his insides; Rhys is drawing out the pain, feeding on it, but the bonds bind Stiles to his humanity as well and Rhys can't eat everything flooding through him. 

Stiles _believes_ and the pain lessens, then disappears from the forefront of his mind, pushed to the back like it's a three day old bruise that aches but doesn't sting. He's aware enough now to know that Derek's tugged Lydia outside, that the three of them are in the car, and Stiles hears as they drive away, hears but doesn't really care. 

"I'm ready," he tells Rhys. "I want this." 

Rhys doesn't ask him if he's sure, doesn't give him a chance to change his mind, doesn't hesitate. He stops feeding on Stiles' hurt, lifts Stiles' right hand, presses a kiss to the underside of Stiles' wrist. 

And then he bites.


End file.
